The Refuser
by Melannen Halfelven
Summary: A young elf of Cuivienen is taken captive by Morgoth's spies.


This story takes place just before Orome first finds the elves. Moravar means 'refuser of the dark' and Kུno is 'the Commander.' (Both in Quenya)

The light of the pale stars glinted off the orcs' spears, and Moravar could feel the very earth pulsing beneath their hated feet. His wrists were bound with an abrasive rope that had cut through his skin and left his hands all but useless. His attempt to judge how much time had passed since he had been taken captive was futile, for the stars above him had changed only slightly since he had last been with his people. The hideous creature behind him cracked its whip. He felt the cord snake around his ankle, biting painfully into his flesh.  
"Faster!" it ordered. Moravar quickened his pace, and he could hear the orcs around him grumbling in their own dark tongue, which he knew not at all.  
The pain in his legs had grown steadily as they traveled, for the already tight muscle had been repeatedly flogged with the lash. Though nothing he felt physically could compare to the pain in his heart. His brother had been slain before his very eyes. He had been unable to stop it, too far away to stop that second blow from falling. He still could see, clearly, the fear that misted those grey eyes before they were misted forever by a different veil. Death. He could not rid himself of the image, and knew it would be with him as long as he lived. In his torment Moravar remembered Cuivienen, his home, though now it seemed only a distant memory. He could hardly recall the once familiar sound of the cold mountain water as it leapt over the stones and the rustling of the leaves on the trees.

He had been hunting with Kུno when they had been ambushed. They were not brothers by blood, but heart only. None of the eldar had yet borne children, for their race was still new to the world. He desired to again be sitting beside the bank of Cuivienen, free of all peril. He hoped he would one day lay eyes upon his home again, though he knew he would not. Yet, more than anything, he wished now for Kུno's wise council. He sighed, wishing did no good now.

The slender bow which he used in hunting had been destroyed by the orcs. His small dagger had been taken. Even had he had it, it would be useless since his hands were tied. His only hope in the world was to unbind them.  
They slowed to a stop in a deep ravine, where the orcs made a hasty fire. Moravar's ankles were bound before he was flung like useless baggage against the rock. Pain shot through him at the contact. Once he regained his senses, Moravar found that he lay beside a sharp protuberance in the stone. Twisting onto his side, the elda began rubbing the cord against it. After seemingly forever, the binding broke. His hands stung terribly as blood rushed back into them. He flexed his fingers experimentally before clumsily untying his legs.  
Moravar knew he did not have much time before they realized he was free. He grabbed a large stick which lay a few feet away. Taking a deep breath, he leapt to his feet and ran. Within seconds, coarse cries were carried up into night sky. He was weak, and they quickly overtook him. Moravar parried their blows with his stick, but it soon snapped. He saw an orc in the corner of his vision raise its scimitar, but could not turn in time. His world went black.

Moravar awoke to pain, a terrible throbbing in his left shoulder, his head, and ribs. It hurt to breath. For a brief moment he wished that the oblivion would reclaim him. He could not open his eyes for blood had crusted them shut. The only sound was his own harsh, labored breathing. He slowly and agonizingly opened his eyes. No stars could be seen through the thick blanket of darkness above him. The emptiness of the sky made Moravar shiver. Never before had he looked into the heavens and not seen the stars. It seemed like a great spider's web was stretching across the ravine.  
An orc behind him made a vicious sound which could have been a laugh. "Our prisoner is awake." It sneered and laughed again. Moravar's brief hope that he had been left was shattered. A metal-toed boot nudged his side, making him grimace in pain.  
"Missing this?" Another creature snickered, waving Moravar's hunting blade in front of the elda's eyes._ Is no end to their cruelty?_ he wondered, as the cold metal sliced his cheek, the same metal he had always been so keen on sharpening. He licked his dry cracked lips, and could taste his own blood.  
One of the din-horde knelt in front of him, baring its teeth in a malicious smile. "Do you know where you're headed?" It did not wait for Moravar to answer. "A few more days of travel and you'll be in Tol-in-Gaurhoth." Gaurhoth, the name alone made the elda want to shiver, but he would not give them that small satisfaction of sensing his fear. He did not know what it was about that name that made him so afraid. The Isle of Werewolves. Without a doubt he knew that it was the dwelling of the Hunter, the nameless fear. The dark fruit of the evil he had sown at the beginning of all was just beginning to bloom. The orcs and other foul creatures that served him had, for the most part, given up their terrorizing of the elves. Yet, of late, many attacks had shattered the seemingly perfect peace that had reigned for nearly fifty years.  
He could still clearly remember, even after so long, the damage which the foul race of orcs had done upon his clan, and so many others. He had only just come to his majority when one of his closest friends had been taken. She had been found much later, beyond all recognition. The cruelty which he had witnessed still caused his blood to boil. It had been so long, yet the soul wounds which had been inflicted upon him were yet to heal.  
The crackle of burning wood brought him out of his reverie as his captors threw more kindling on their small fire. The smoke burned his eyes as it drifted on the sharp breeze. He coughed, an act which earned him another hard nudge in the side. Kུno had once told him that one's best weapon often went unseen, and could not be taken away. The phrase had done little but confuse him at the time, but now he understood.  
After a few short minutes of being ignored, another orc turned to Moravar. It waved a hard black mass of bread in front of his eyes. "Hungry, elf?" It spat on the ground next to Moravar's face.  
The elda looked his tormentor in the eyes and growled, "Not near enough to sink as low as you."  
A look of confusion spread across its hideous features, followed by a wave of understanding. With a snarl, it landed a blow on the side of moravar's head. "_Snaga_." It turned and stalked away. Moravar watched the orc recede into the darkness with grim satisfaction.  
The clouds parted slowly, like the reluctant messenger of ill news. The stars could be seen, though only faintly. To Moravar it was not the stars he knew, for their light came always with hope. This, it came only with the thrum of orc feet on hard ground. He allowed his mind to wander, so that he could find peace, such as it was. So long ago . . . .

Moravar was brought back to reality when he heard the creaking as two great gates were swung open before him. While they were nothing compared to the tremendous walls of Thangorodrim, which held Melkor safe, when they were likely the last thing one would ever see, they seemed aptly impressive. Moravar snarled at his captors, and continued to walk, his head high.  
"Nan elda, nalye rauko. U-lantuvan, an lantuvalye." The words sounded hollow to his own ears, but the effect they had on his guards was visible. They hated the eldarin tongue in all of its forms, and feared it. Moravar gave them a crooked smile through his split lip. The orcs were unsure how to respond, and chose to ignore him. To his satisfaction he could hear them whispering, and edging away. They were afraid, for good reason. Finwe and Elwe were the lords of Cuivienen, and his friends. His brother was Kུno, the Commander. They all had been proud lords, but he was now only a prisoner. Lonely as any other, with only memories to hold.  
Moravar was forced to his knees before the subterranean throne. The cold eyes that shone in the dark glared hatefully at him. Moravar returned the stare with defiance. He was unprepared for what came next. The lieutenant laughed.  
"Prince," he made a sound of disapproval. "The legends of your lowly race paint them differently."  
"So do yours." Came the reply.  
"How so?"  
"I had imagined you more threatening, not this cowering creature that hides in dank places. Your master would be disappointed."  
"I serve no one."  
Moravar scoffed. "Or so you believe."  
The smile twisted into a snarl. "I serve no one!"  
Moravar shook his head in mock sadness. "Your thoughts are yours, but I think we both know that is not the truth."  
The lieutenant stood and walked up to Moravar, his yellow eyes only inches from the frozen silver orbs and he was panting his foul breath in the elda's face. "You will pay for that."  
He gave a curt nod to the guards, who in turn grasped Moravar's shoulders and walked him out of the chamber. The elf could feel those yellow eyes boring into his back, and was afraid. They led him down a dark narrow passageway. The walls were made from large black stones that were slick from the damp air. The only light was from the torch that one of the orcs held, a pale and sickly glow that could not penetrate the darkness but for a few feet ahead. The scuff of boots on stone, the clink of keys, and the occasional scurrying of a rat were the only sounds. They echoed, sounding like a huge phantom battalion marching through the underworld.  
They took an offshoot of the main corridor. The orcs led him down a flight of stairs, which were slippery and covered with grime. Nothing could be seen ahead or behind. After a few more minutes, they stopped. The head guardsman turned to the side and began working on a large lock with one of the keys he held. Moravar could see that, instead of stone, there were thick iron bars concealing, he guessed, a cell. The grating of metal made his stomach churn. This was it. This was the end of all things. The door was swung open, revealing darkness. The orcs shoved him towards the opening. Moravar gathered what was left of his strength and turned on them. Before they knew what was happening, he had grabbed a scimitar from one of the guards and quickly slew two others. The lieutenant had sent ten with him. It was hopeless at best, for he was weak.  
Moravar soon was on one side of the remainder of the orcs. He knew his way out, but only by the way they had come. The orcs were between him and escape. Behind him was a long, narrow hall which was just as much of a prison as the one they wanted to lock him in. Raising the orc weapon, he lodged it in the chest of the large warden and charged. Within seconds, he felt the cold slice of iron across his stomach. Dark blotches appeared in front of his eyes and he stumbled. He never felt himself hit the ground.


End file.
